


rare (and warm) is this love

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, F/M, Hoth, POV Cassian Andor, Tenderness, introspective, poetic sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 00:50:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17839265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: After a long, cold mission, Cassian returns to Echo Base to find his lover has made very special plans for them for the night. A softly tender and intimate one shot fic.“Hi,” she whispers. Even her voice is more intimate now. Softer, shyer.Cassian nods, which he realizes is a poor way of greeting his lover. “Hey,” he finally manages, which might not be much better.“Would you like to come closer?”





	rare (and warm) is this love

There are few soft things in Cassian’s life. There hasn’t been, not for a long, long time. He wakes from a fitful rest on a hard bunk on some other base, not even his bunk at Echo Base on Hoth, his new home. (Because that word is one small soft thing. He clings to it, believes in it with the same amount of fervor he does for the Rebellion, because to him, they are one and the same. The only home he has is found within the fight he’s pledged his life to.)

Most of his days are filled with sharp sudden alerts, with the bitter burn of cold-- both the kind that comes from Hoth’s environment and the deeper, more painful ache of a heart mostly frozen over from all the terrible things he’s done in the name of a good cause.

There is a regularity to his days, no matter how varied and nuanced each mission he’s given is. Most things remain the same. There is something missing to be obtained or someone to be silenced. There is a uniform to wear, a fake ID, a weapon. A new mask of emotions to make.

The old mask had broken after Scarif. The mask he’d worn underneath all disguises, a mask that had fooled even himself. He hadn’t realized, until then, that he no longer changed for each mission. Rather, the missions had changed him. Instead of just playing a role, instead of only seeming cold while he was on the job, he’d turned to ice, every emotion freezing over.

But all that had led to Scarif and all the healing that came after it melted away every bit of his former mask. Now, when he leaves for an intelligence mission, he makes the choice to become someone else, to don a mask as well as a false name, and then, thankfully, leave those things behind when he returns home.

Home. A good word. A soft word. One that, lately, means so much more, if he lets himself think about it. Because home is a base, yes, but it is also a room inside that base, and inside that room, often, is his lover. Waiting for him.

It had been that thought alone that had gotten him through this most recent mission. Made him run for his ship, forcing his aching legs faster, his lungs to keep gasping air through broken ribs. Because he had to get home. Not just for the Rebellion (after all, he’d already transmitted the file they’d needed from him) but for her, too. For Leia.

Because she too has had so few soft things in her life, since the day she lost her planet. Cassian wouldn’t let himself be some new sharp pain, another cold ache in her heart. He’d survive, for her, for the Rebellion, for Kay, for those who needed him.

K-2S0 fusses over him as soon as he stumbles into the medbay of the rendezvous ship. Cassian rests against him. This, he thinks, this is one warm moment. As cold as Kay’s metal frame is, as sharp as the pain of healing will be, he knows he’s finally safe here. The droid stays with him through application of bacta patches, informing him of updates and news.

But this ship isn’t home. Cassian is stationed on Hoth, a place too cold for Kay’s joints. And besides, Kay is still working with Bodhi on the pilot’s own recovery process. The two have bonded in the hours of physical therapy that Bodhi undertook, learning to use a cybernetic arm. So, Cassian leaves the warmth of his dear friends behind, and heads out again. Still cold, still so tired.

The bacta patches are cheap and onlyhalf-functional. He knows they’re scarce right now, so he hadn’t reported most of his minor injuries. Refused to take supplies someone else could use.

* * *

 

So he is stumbling and aching and so so tired by the time he lands at Echo Base. Autopilot, not of the ship, but of his broken body takes over. He makes his report, checks in his gear, and then, finally, he is headed down the long hallway to his room. He punches in his keycode, scans his hand, and enters the room that is the closest thing to a safe place he has.

There, he goes through his routine, silently. Hangs up his clothes, takes off his boots. Every moment familiar, every movement painful. He’s so tired. Tired enough that although his brain registered Leia’s sleeping in his bed, it provided no additional data.

He thinks about kissing her forehead, knowing that Leia, unlike him, is a sound sleeper. Knowing that she sleeps without fear, which amazes him, given all that she’s been through. But until the destruction of Alderaan, it is true that Leia had always had someone there for her. Someone guarding her. Watching over her. Maybe not in that moment, not during a mission, but she’d had someone to come home to. Leia doesn’t know how to be alone and that’s all Cassian has ever been.

Not just her family. Her friends, her bodyguards, even her former lovers. (Or semi-former, in the case of Amilyn) There had always been someone for her. Until the day there wasn’t. Until the day Leia had frozen, had donned a mask as icy as Cassian’s own had been. As timing would have it, there had been only a few small moments, between when Cassian first started to feel warm, and Leia had frozen over. He’s glad to have helped her, to have held her when she cried and yelled and demanded justice for a planet gone forever. But he hates that they hadn’t gotten the plans sooner, that his failing had resulted in her loss.

Even if she tells him it’s not his fault.

His regret is sharp and cold like so many things in his life.

So he lets her sleep and heads to the fresher. When he exists, his hair is damp, his facial hair trimmed into something approaching regulation (Leia does find his scruffiness charming, after all) and he’s slung a towel around his hips. He’s just tugging a shirt over his shoulders (because his scars aren’t charming, not at all, especially not the newest ones) when he looks up.

And realizes, for once…

The spy himself has been fooled.

Because Leia hadn’t been asleep, not at all.

Leia’s perched in his bed and the military cot has never looked so humble and yet so regal at the same time. Because she’s made it her throne. As he watches, she shifts, from sitting to kneeling. First, carefully, she undoes the little ribbon belt, and then, she shfts one shoulder, then, the next, offering him the smallest, most private little dance. One that allows the soft silken shirt robe to slide off as he watches.

Underneath she’s wearing something that is both an architectural marvel and the sexiest thing he’s ever seen. The lingerie cups her breasts, teasing him with the barest glimpse of a nipple mostly hidden by pink lace, a tease that continues down over her body, past her hips, to her thighs, where it melts into a complicated set of buckled garters. He licks his lips, already enjoying the challenge presented by each tiny clasp. Once the robe is fully off her shoulders, Leia lets her hands stay relaxed behind her back, allowing him to think of… plenty of other ways to keep them there.

Her chin is held high, and her hair is… kriffing hell, she’s letting her hair down as he watches. Her eyes are locked on his, and they’ve never looked bigger, brighter, more beautiful, as pin, by pin, she allows the chestnut waves to tumble down over her bare shoulders. There’s something more intimate in this moment than any they’ve shared before. He’s never watched this, before, only known Leia as the commander with her hair in braids or the lover with her hair draped over pillows.

This, he thinks, isn’t just warm. It’s burning with heat and passion. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing (though part of his mind has already cataloged it as incredibly beautiful and very complicated-looking) or how they’re going to be occupying themselves in just a few short (deliciously agonizing) moments.

“Hi,” she whispers. Even her voice is more intimate now. Softer, shyer. As if it's their first time together again.

Cassian nods, which he realizes is a poor way of greeting his lover. “Hey,” he finally manages, which might not be much better.

“Would you like to come closer?”

Would a fire like to burn? He nods, again. Imagines taking her, imagines having her all to himself for the night, her hands held above her head so he can give her all the pleasures she begs for. Imagines how good he can make her feel. His imagination nearly short-circuits when another lock of hair slides down, drawing his attention back to all that lace, to the bows and buckles he plans to open with his mouth. He's close enough to touch her. But hesitates. “May I?”

“I’m all yours,” she says, still coaxing her hair out of all of it’s complicated braids, each freed tendril a new tease for him. He wants to wrap the long locks around his hand, pull her closer to him, gently tug on her hair as she goes down on him. He wants her, completely, utterly, and impossibly. Cassian knows better than to want things.

“Mine?” he tries out the word. There is nothing that’s his. Even is life is only on lease to him, owned by the Rebellion.

How could anyone as precious as Leia be his?

She stretches out her hand and he takes it. Lets her pull him closer, close even to smell the perfume she wears. She’s… decadent in this moment. A luxury that has no place in wartime and yet is all he could ever crave. “Why?” he whispers. “Why me?” His lips brush over her forehead, though he wishes to kiss every inch of her skin. He’s not sure he can. Not sure hands as coarse as his deserve to touch something as soft as her in this moment.

Leia rests her head against his chest. For all his desires, he still treasures the gentle moments too. For them, tenderness is its own rare surrender. “Because I’m safe here.”

“On Echo Base?” On a base constantly falling apart? Under siege by wampa?

“No, you bantha-brain. With you. I’m home with you.”

Oh.

Cassian looks down at her, at all the ruffles and lace and smooth soft skin. All of her, all on display and all… “did you… is all of this for me?”

“Very much.” It’s Leia who moves to kiss him, who presses her lips against his like a promise. He responds in kind, drinking her in. It's always easier for him to lead once she invites him to dance. As his kisses brush down her neck, she sighs. “You were gone a long time.”

“Was I?” One of his hands dares to drift over her shoulder, to slowly, carefully, slide a strap off the curve, and then, plant a trail of kisses, down her neck, over her collarbone. “Can't remember. It’s already fading away.”

Leia, in that moment, is the softest, most beautiful thing, he’s ever seen. He thinks back to his childhood wishes, to know what starlight feels like, to hold snow in his hands and have it not melt, to be warm, safe, loved. Cassian’s found all of them in her.

He tries to find the words to tell her all of those things as he slowly undresses her. The garment, with all its buckles, makes his work so deliciously slow. Here, he reveals the curve of one breast, there, he finds a place to stroke the curve of her hip. The lace is so soft it snags against his calloused fingers.

Cassian curses, feeling too clumsy, too coarse for this activity. Leia stops him. Lifts his hand to her mouth, skimming her fingers over his as she does. He swallows. Because Leia’s hands, too, have the calluses from blasters and the tools of the Rebellion. Neither of them are always soft. Not at all.

But in this moment, well.. Leia tenderly kisses, then sucks on one of his fingers, her wide eyes making it very clear what she’s implying. He groans. “Leia. You’re going to kill me.”

She pulls his finger away. He traces the shape of her lips with wonder, before she speak. “And here I just wanted to warm you up.”

“Oh, believe me. I am.” Cassian returns to his task, finally undoing the small bow that rests between her breasts. Then, he pulls her closer, buries his face there, leaves kisses and gentle bites over all that is tender and secret and only his. Her hand on the back of his head keeps him there, coaxes him to continue his worship of one nipple and then the other.

Leia lays back on the narrow cot and he crouches over her to finish undressing her.His own clothes had been shed with ease, every bit of disguise falling away so she can see him as he truly is. All her. His hand strokes her through the fabric, his eyes watching hers for every blissful little expression on her face. Then, he kisses every bit of skin his work has revealed, treasures her more with each touch. Finally, she is naked, all lace, all ribbons gone, only her curtain of long hair offering the most scandalous bit of modesty as he takes her in, studies her for one achingly bright moment.

He thinks of warmth, of softness, of hope and home. When Leia smiles at him, hiding nothing, and then, when they are together and nothing, not the war, not the past, not the next mission, is between them, he knows that he’s found all of those impossible things, and more.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments very welcome! Thank you to AntChan for the amazing beta!


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